


last gasp at calama

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Period-Typical Attitudes, Strong Language, age of exploration, habsburg-era arranged marriage, i throw canon out of a window pov asmr, i want to punch antonio maria fernandez carriedo in the face right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-04-19 04:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: roderich learned quickly not to ask about the blood. it let him sleep better at night, not knowing it came from slaves and pacifists. antonio never spoke of how he managed to provide for his country or his husband. it kept him awake, but he knew that even if the guilt did not, the nightmares that plagued him would.
Relationships: Austria/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	last gasp at calama

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is just a warning: please be aware the work you're going into is not portraying a healthy relationship. These two were in an arranged marriage and Antonio is generally awful.
> 
> Also! There is reference to Antonio's awful crimes in South America... which are actual things that happened. The specific date chosen was because it was when Spain would have been returning from founding San Augustin, in the process displacing several groups of Native Americans and killing and then destroying the French Ft. Caroline. This piece also references back to the genocide of the Aztec peoples.

The year was 1566. Antonio had been at sea for nearly two years, stumbling back home drunk enough to pass as a man who had never been on solid land. When he entered, Roderich smelled him before he saw him, the mixture of decaying blood and body odor enough to make the room suffocating.

“God,” the Austrian swore, “go bathe before reentering. I refuse to stand for this degree of hygiene! I fear the stench will settle into my clothes. Brocade is so difficult to clean, you know, and this doublet is worth more than your life.”

Toni just sighed in response, tossing a soiled bag on the ground before stretching upwards. Free of heavy armor for the first time in what felt like months, he was still not used to the newfound range of motion and lack of weight. The bag spilled as he turned, nearly tripping over it. Gold and exotic turquoise gleamed under lamplight.

“Nice way to talk to the man paying for your expensive taste,” He snarked, Castilian lisp heavy in his words, thickened by the alcohol. “But fine, for you, _su atroz real._” Antonio stumbled to another room, whooping for some servant to draw him the hot bath he so deserved along the way. He did not return for another twenty or thirty minutes, significantly cleaner, even if the copper scent of blood still lingered, matted in dark brown curls. Now in deep maroon trousers (Antonio liked the color for how well it hid bloodstains) and a white poet blouse, flinging himself down onto the divan beside Roderich.

“Good. And what treats did you bring for me? I noticed the bag.” It was early in their marriage, this being the first expedition he had been on since they had wed. He did not know to expect such a thing.

“Oh, uhm, just a few little things I thought you would appreciate.”

“Thank you.”

“I love you.” The alcohol was talking. He had taken Roderich’s hand and was fidgeting with his ring. Antonio remembered getting this ring; it belonged to an Aztec woman, and it was the prettiest thing he had seen in his life. It was too small for his hands, worn with scars and callouses, but Austria had those delicate hands of a pianist, and it fit him well. Antonio thought it looked much better now that her blood had worked itself out of the little crevices.

“Antonio… You know how this goes.”

“Maybe I do, but we _are_ married. We’re supposed to love each other. It just… it’s right! That’s how it has to be. You’re ruining it. Just play… play the game.”

“It was an arranged marriage.” Roderich’s tone was sharp, quickly tiring of his husband’s drunken blame games. He pulled his hand from Antonio’s grip and folded both his hands in his lap. “You know I love someone else. I am not lying to you to preserve your queer Catholic ideals.”

Antonio grumbled something under his breath and sat up, taking Roderich by the wrist with a deadly serious expression. “Roderich, do you know what I do to get your fucking gold? That shit you want to drape yourself in and feel like a fucking saint on November second? Do you know what I do to women and children to get it for you? I _kill_ for you. I have people take whips to them and force them to mine for your gold. I ripped half the jewelery in that bag off of corpses. The least you can do is say three easy words. Lie if you half to! I don’t care. Just give me what I _want_.”

Roderich pulled his arm away with all the force he could muster, and slapped Antonio across the face. The red outline was faint on his sun-darkened skin. “I didn’t ask for that! I have never asked you for anything but space! For God’s sake, get your drunken hands off of me. I didn’t even ask to be married to you!” He got off the divan and dusted himself off, clearing his throat as if to remove the anger from his voice. Curtly and mechanically, the Austrian stated: “Now I will see myself off to my study. Don’t bother me.”

He left the Spaniard in their lounge room.

Antonio was left there, hand so delicately hovering over the red print on his cheek, staring at the receding figure. A few seconds later, he shouted, “Some coming home party from you, fucking poltroon.” Anger was far easier than admitting arrogance.

Now it was only his thoughts and him, the former being his least favorite companion, particularly when the booze failed him as it had tonight. He lowered his hand from his face, dragging it across the velvet surface of the daybed. Antonio half expected his fingers to leave a faint trail of crimson. These past few years, they had more often than not. He drank to forget that feeling, that of the heat of someone else’s fresh blood coating his hands, but he never could. It did not matter if he thought it was wrong, he would tell himself, because it was for God and for Country. He did it for everyone else, for the greater good. He did it out of love, for his country and his Lord and his lover. He did it for everyone else but himself. The sword in his hand so often was to help those around him. It was wielded out of a desire for creation, not destruction. At least, all this was what he told himself, and with the alcohol, he could almost believe it.

How could he be blamed for this? How could Roderich not see? He did not ask for much. He asked only for love, was that so much? It was more than he knew, it was impossible. Antonio thought to his shipmates, returning home to harbor and seeing their wives waiting on piers, hollering praise and cheers. Antonio thought about all they had, all he didn’t have.

Another glass of rum was looking fantastic right now.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work fitting into the Hetalia fandom. That said, I don't really regard canon materials. I just go "ooh funky concept" and then go ham with history. If this is mildly successful or if my girlfriend wants it, I may write another piece set in modern times. Who knows? It most definitely won't be Spain/Austria is that's the case, though!


End file.
